Fragile

After mum’s visit, it’s back to reality. Despite the bleakness and my morale at an all-time low, by the grace of God I find the resolve to go to work.

There is some good news on the professional front. THRO’s impending financial gloom has been averted for the foreseeable future, thanks to canny diplomatic manoeuvres. 

Elsewhere, I hear things that deepen my sense of disillusion.  

There’s a two-tier system in place at The Organisation; those who were fortunate enough to join THRO when permanent contracts were handed out like sweets. Then, there’s everyone else.

If you’re not one of those jammy sorts with the golden ticket, to stand a chance at any upward mobility you have to go through an arduous selection process. This includes all-day tests, interviews and the like. The procedure takes several months. Most frustrating of all, those on fixed-term contracts -such as yours truly- would have already gone through all this carry-on to get a foot through the door in the first place.  Meanwhile, senior management pulls strings so that their friends and family get plummy positions via temporary contracts. They’re spared the indignity of job insecurity through these Godfather/Godmother-style connections. 

Fine. None of this is new to me.

What is new is learning that senior colleagues with permanent contracts, dogged by complaints and a dubious reputation, are simply moved on within the organisation or ‘reassigned’. Whilst those working on a fixed-term basis who fall out of favour with La Direction; well their contracts are simply not renewed.

The Human Rights Organisation, eh? Charity begins at home.

Recently a swathe of colleagues, including my line manager Sophie, have undergone one of these recruitment assessments (and not for the first time). During the preceding weeks they cram for a test that, in the end, pays little heed to the reference material. They spend the equivalent of a working day being made to jump through shape-shifting intellectual hoops. By the end, they feel shafted. Some don’t finish the paper. One colleague plans to make a formal complaint.

It’s as if we were set up to fail, Sophie observes ruefully.

The alternative strategy? Professional stagnation or seek opportunities elsewhere.

Previously, I have been adept at keeping a good work/life balance. Yet the office's disagreeable ambiance has started to insinuate its way into my personal life. I’m daily fighting to keep anxiety at bay. I’m not always getting a good night’s sleep. The fatigue exacerbates the unhappiness. I have to stop my thoughts from wandering to gloomier places.

Summer’s here and activities start to wind down. The first Friday of July, I expect to make a difficult choice between two places I’d like to be; an outing with the street team and choir practice. Both of these will be the last sessions before the long summer break.  In the end, neither go ahead that evening owing to poor turnout. The choir’s pot-luck is postponed until the following Friday. That suits me. I can delay the summer farewell for another week.

That Sunday after church, I’ve planned to meet up with recent acquaintance, Noelle in the picturesque Alsatian town of Barr. She’s based in Selestat, on the outskirts of Strasbourg herself. I’ve had to make my peace with trekking a little further for our meet-ups. She’s chosen Barr as a break from the norm. The views are to die for, Noelle insists. I don’t doubt it. I find that the aesthetic appeal of the Alsace region is consolation for its shortcomings.

Chateau Landsberg: Barr, France

The ominous forecasts of stormy weather do not materialise. Au contraire, il fait beau.

It’s a drama free commute to Barr. Noelle collects me from the station, dressed in jeans and trainers. It's the first time I've seen her in civs.  By contrast I am kitted out in my far less practical Sunday Best. My sandals are nonetheless sturdy and, as it turns out, more trustworthy than Noelle’s slippery trainers.

The first stop is the Andlau Chateau; dating back to the 13^th Century.

En route, Noelle comments on how much better my French is compared to when we last spoke.

Maybe you were tired but it was a bit of a disaster the other day.

I feel demoralised.

In fact, I’m probably more sleep-deprived this time, I explain. It really depends on the context. Perhaps my brain is just generally more alert during the day…

Noelle will proceed to correct my French at various points during the excursion. Later she will rephrase a message by text when I’m under the impression that it’s grammatically legit.

On the whole the outing is pleasant. The scenery is as lush as promised. The second stop at the Chateau de Landsberg reveals it to be more attractive still than its Andlau counterpart. The peripheries of the Black Forest in Germany can be seen from these heights. A group of Goths have organised a very modest-sized festival on the grounds. Noelle will later treat us both to Mint Diablos at an Inn with laid-back and friendly staff, overlooking more inviting verdure. We laugh often and Noelle speaks candidly about more painful chapters of her life.  And yet, what will remain of the day is her critique of my linguistic efforts (that, and the lingering suspicion she’s trying to recruit me into a cosmetics-flogging pyramid scheme).

Let’s get some perspective here. It’s not the end of the world if I make grammatical errors. It shouldn’t be. And yet I’ve reached a stage in my Alsatian Adventure where I’m especially fragile. Certain experiences have taken chunks out of what self-confidence I had; not least my current work situation. Living here has brought pre-existing neuroses to the surface like never before; something akin to the symptoms of an allergic reaction. If I was aware of my issues before, they’re flagged up even more in this context.

One area of particular sensitivity is my language skills; or rather the perceived personal failing it represents. After all, perfecting my French was one of the primary objectives of relocating to The Hexagon. It’s not as if I don’t welcome correction. It’s about the way it's done. A very French way; severe and dry. In a British anglophone context, you make corrections sparingly and in a tactful manner. An interlocutor would generally prioritise communication over accuracy.  In the Francophone context, the two might as well be inseparable.

I understand it’s cultural and reflects the strict pedagogy the French themselves undergo. It also betrays remnants of linguistic imperialism still at play, grounded in ideology that the French language (and by extension, the culture) is inherently superior, refined and has a 'civilising' effect on those who speak it. Thus, with the exception of some sympathetic individuals, non-Francophones feel as if they are constantly being judged on their linguistic merits. Any shortfall appears to be treated by the French as a moral failing. I am not alone in this sentiment. I’ve heard similar comments from many a non-Francophone on both sides of The Channel. Perhaps that perception is stronger in this region than elsewhere.

Whatever the reason, it’s thoroughly dejecting. Faced by such exacting standards, it would be better for my peace of mind if I simply gave up trying to please the implacable. If only it were that straightforward. The pressure comes from within and without.

I would expect Noelle to know better. She lived  in the UK for over a decade. She should understand how challenging the process of acquiring another language can be; particularly if you grew up monolingual. She speaks good English but I’ve heard better from Francophones who’ve never lived in an Anglophone country. The difference is that I would not be pedantic about this.

The problem arises again the following day when I have a farewell meet-up with HRGS choir member, Elise. She’s returning to her hometown further south having lived in Strasbourg for several years.  She has a tendency to not only dryly correct my French but anything else she finds amiss. The comments aren't reserved just for me, either. I don’t know if this is a projection of her insecurities. At least on the language front, she’s gifted.

In any case, I’m not in the mood for it. Since waking up that morning, it’s been a battle to keep my emotions in check. I just about have a handle on things when I meet up with Elise. The melancholy is nevertheless close to the surface. It doesn’t take much for me to burst into tears. One too many of Elise’, no doubt well-intended, corrective remarks. I explain that this has been a long-standing niggle. For a while, I found myself avoiding her company. It is only right that I am candid with her. I apologise for this unintended absence.

Elise is contrite. She claims it's selfish of her to correct me so often, given I don't have trouble making myself understood.  I too feel bad. I hadn’t planned to dampen the mood of our parting rendez-vous. I’m also much older than Elise. I’m supposed to be robust. 

I am in the throes of one of my cyclical Strasbourg-related downturns. I intimate some of the issues at work. It resonates with Elise. She admits she’s stayed too long in the region. After a number of years trying to make the best of it, she’s finally relocating to be closer to her family. We have similar reservations about the local mindset. When Elise describes the choir as an oasis, she takes the words right out of my mouth.

It’s not right to complain when I am in good health and I live in relative luxury compared to much of the world. Those are the things I try to focus on when I’m in good form. Yet, there’s something about Strasbourg life that occasionally eats away at me. I believe I’m past the worst of it only for another vague à l’âme to momentarily wash over.

On the bright side, I’m due another upturn soon. It might be an uphill struggle sometimes but it's not a losing battle. Some wise words by Eitan Kenner, a musician I have recently interviewed on the beginning of his own spiritual journey, come to my rescue time and again. Like a God-sent refrain.

"...To me, God is just "being"; surrendering to the moment without all the background noise; without all the questions and all the little details..."

Soundtrack: Flamagra by Flying Lotus.

Visit Number Five: Part Two

Krutenau district, Strasbourg

Part One

The psychological comfort and familiarity of mum’s presence is an indescribable morale boost. My discouraging work situation has taken its toll. Mum comments a number of times that I’m more irritable.

I’ve always been a bit uptight. I counter, defensively.

Not like this.

I have no qualms admitting that my battle with anxiety has intensified of late; despite my prayers and non-chemically assisted efforts to stay on top of it (including said missing gratitude journal). Depressives often say that it is of no help at all when told to ‘cheer up’. If it were that easy, they wouldn’t need the advice. I believe anxiety works the same. Telling someone to relax is as counter-productive as ‘cheer up’. Mum is doing her best to understand. She is well-versed about my current professional situation. I don’t like to worry her by being so visibly unsettled by it.

Better out than in, she admonishes.

That Thursday we’ve arranged to have dinner with my gastronomically-astute pal, Gael. He and mum met on her previous visit with sis. The rapport was instant. Gael has mentioned introducing me to some more of what Strasbourg has to offer on the cuisine front. Mum’s trip is the perfect opportunity to make good on these intentions. He knows I like food from the MENA region. He sends me a selection of his personal recommendations from which to choose. By pure coincidence, I opt for Chevaliers in Krutenau; a restaurant he happens to be taking over for his new Afropean venture. It’s a splendid evening. The food is fine, if not spectacular. The customer service and present company make the night what it is. We talk and laugh late into the evening. Polyglot Gael switches to English for mum’s sake. He’s a knowledgeable and genteel interlocutor. He and mum swap tales about their West African childhoods. We’re intrigued by his extensive travels across the Motherland. Mum asks which country he enjoyed the most. Zimbabwe, he replies. It’s so much more than the dire news reports which we’re used to in the West.

Gael generously offers to pay for our meals. We insist on taking care of a decent tip for our gracious host, Hassiba.

On the bus back, a notification flashes on the electronic screen: Free transport all day Friday. It will be extended for the whole weekend by the following day. The City Council want to encourage drivers to leave their car behind. It’s great news for mum. She’ll barely use any of her transport credit during her trip.

Told you, mum. You bring good fortune. 

Back to work the next morning but only for half-a-day. TGIF, albeit a hectic one. Held up by last minute hitches at the office, I’m running late for a rendez-vous with mum and another one of our Strasbourg-based pals, Catarina. It’s almost a year to the day when we met at a church barbecue. Then, the country was in the grip of World Cup fever for the men. This year it’s the women’s turn. Alas, Les Bleues don’t take home the trophy this time.

We’ve agreed to meet Catarina at one of my regular haunts, Oh My Goodness! It’s been a while since she has spoken English. Bless her, she makes the effort for mum. I believe she appreciates the practice. Her knowledge of the current French political situation is impressive; as is her awareness of some of the UK’s neo-liberal travails. She predicts that Macron’s right-wing economic reforms will only drive the working class into Le Pen's clutches. It's something I’ve feared since his mandate began.

We part ways with Catarina at the tram stop and hop on the D to Kehl Rathaus. I want to show mum the changes since her last visit. As is her habit, she treats me to various household items for my flat.

I’m in a hurry but don’t wish to rush her. I have choir rehearsal that evening. I am reluctant to miss it. The following day we'll do our last show before the two and a half-month summer break. As a compromise, I notify the choir directors I might be late. I arrive even later than intended, having been hijacked by an email from a Labour Party-affiliated organisation of which I’m a member. They are reacting to another fomented ‘scandal’ with a disappointing lack of discernment and goodwill. Disillusioned, I let them know exactly what I think.

I feel the anxiety returning. I try to put it to the back of my mind on the way to choir practice, where temporary reprieve awaits.

It’s not just infuriating messages in my inbox that have set me off. The weekend schedule has run away from me. There are occasions where activities accrue until I find myself having to be in numerous places all at once. I’ve promised mum a market trip in the morning en route to a half-day conference at church. That evening my choir, HRGS will be part of the line-up of an open-air solidarity gig. I’ve had to jettison the idea of the free Petite France Happy Tour, I’d wanted to squeeze in.

Mum tries not to let my agitation get to her. Somehow I unwind despite running behind schedule. By the time we’re wandering through the market near Esplanade, picking up some unexpected bargains along the way, I’m pretty Zen about whether or not I’ll make the seminar. I’ve already emailed the organisers that I might be a no-show.

It's a full blown heatwave. My attention falls on a man in a brown leather jacket. What a fashion statement in this weather. I'm wondering how the poor thing copes. He starts to jerk, yell, and disappears through the crowd moving frenetically. I catch sight of his soles, hanging out of leather flip-flops. They're greyish-green with deep, canyon-like crevices. It takes me a few moments to recover from this apparition.

Mum and I head towards my church after thoroughly perusing the market wares. We’ll stop by at the Lidl’s opposite the church building but not before I pop into the conference to show my face. I’m not surprised to only have met the post-seminar refreshments. The organisers appreciate my efforts in any case. It’s a brief but edifying moment of fellowship over vol-au-vents.

At the LICRA Solidarity Open Air Performance,
Place St. Thomas, Strasbourg

After shopping it’s home again for some rest, preparation of supper and other tasks. I change into my evening outfit before mum and I head back out to St. Thomas’ Square for the Solidarity gig. Organised by anti-racism NGO, LICRA, the show is dedicated to 21-year old Afghan refugee, Habib who took his life in late May; dejected by a lack of financial and moral support. My mind will frequently return to this young man over the coming days. The event's hosts speak of how this isn’t representative of an international and welcoming city such as Strasbourg. Hmm. Even for those with creature comforts, the so-called Capital of Europe is alienating at the best of times. I can only imagine thus how desperately lonely and frustrating it would be for someone with neither language nor means.

Despite the tragic circumstances, the ambience is nonetheless celebratory. To my pleasant surprise, HRGS come out in encouraging numbers; even those who haven’t been to rehearsals for a while. Mum is a hit with the members. She has no issues communicating, many of them being fluent English-speakers. For the first time I hear the extent of Elise’ auto-didact linguistic genius. Her English is pretty impeccable for someone who has never studied it officially beyond secondary school. I feel inadequate.

The obligatory comments about mum’s youthfulness are forthcoming and welcome by both of us. Mum sits in on our practice. Five choirs use what available space there is to go over their repertoire. HRGS attracts a lot of attention before and during the performance. We’re second on the bill. It will be one of our best gigs to date; save for a very ropey rendition of The Circle of Life. Mum doesn’t have any compunction giving this frank feedback to choir directors, Evan and Kiasi. They receive it in good-humour.

The vibrant atmosphere is palpable. I am relieved and delighted to observe mum in her element. She thanks me repeatedly for bringing her along. She is touched by the choir's friendliness. Not for the only time during this trip, my mind goes to Maya Angelou's observations about the mother/child relationship. She speaks of how the very presence of a mother can change how your acquaintances perceive you; an invisible, protective force field.

After our presentation, most of the choir sticks around to see the other acts and for the grand finale performance of We Shall Overcome. All the choirs are supposed to perform. By the end, there are hardly any remaining. A choir specialising in Broadway standards and Yiddish folk-music take up a lot of stage time. As does the final jazz-folk vocalist. He’s meant to limit his set to three songs. We’re appreciative of his particular stamp on El Paso Condor and join in gamely with Don’t Worry, Be Happy. Then, emboldened by the crowd’s warm reception, he launches into a slow, folky-soul rendition of Pink Floyd’s Another Brick in the Wall; a bizarrely morose choice.

It’s around this time, well past 11pm, the rest of us leave en masse towards the tram stop; save for Elise. It’s her last concert with HRGS before she moves down south to be closer to her family. Evan reminds us about the last rehearsal before summer. My heart sinks. It clashes with the last outing of the street team.

See you in September then.

I start singing EWF's hit. Inside however, I'm crestfallen.

I don’t know when next I’ll perform with the chorale. My heart breaks at the thought of another lonely summer stretched out before me; the activities that were a life-line on hold for months. That, and the thought of mum’s looming departure back to the UK, reduce me to hot tears several times that weekend.

Sunday morning doesn’t go according to plan. I have to change outfits owing to a malfunctioning zip. Time escapes me. I’m the one who makes us late to church in spite of nagging mum to be ready by half-9. On arriving, I find that the English interpretation service is not yet ready. I panic at the idea of having to do the translation again; one week after another shaky turn on the rota.

Much ado about nothing. Two interpreters turn up for this week’s session.

The message that Sunday is about knowing our value before God; how it's important to understand our own in order to properly affirm others. It's an interactive affair with short dramatic interludes and video clips. At the end, I offer tearful prayers to heaven. The sermon has taken on a personal urgency.

Mum will admit later that the translation isn’t as fluid as previously. The interpreter is a novice who disappears before the service is over, leaving me to translate the announcements.

We meet and greet a few familiar faces and head back in the direction of Étoile Bourse. Mum would like us to spend some time at the Orangerie; the park a stone's throw from my office. Just being in the vicinity of work makes me uneasy. Yet I can still appreciate the serenity of the adjacent green space.

It's a sweltering day; high 30s. We miss two of the irregular buses, partly down to a timing mistake on my part. I take every trivial disappointment to heart that morning; feeling personally responsible.

Calm down. Please. Do you see me upset? Mum reassures. We got here eventually. 

As was the case last year, something about the tranquillity of the Orangerie sparks off a tearful, soul-searching conversation with mum. I recount how anxiety and guilt have stalked me since childhood. Wrestling with perfectionism and feelings of inadequacy. We continue to share and pray. Faced with my anguish, Mum brings a healthy balance of compassion and rock-solid support.

Still, my weepiness gets her going a number of times. We both try to hold onto the night; eating a homecooked meal including mum’s jollof rice and akara bean cakes (by special request) and resuming our unofficial custom of watching Tales of The Unexpected. We go to bed long after 1am.

Monday morning. A week exactly since our Basel visit. Mum’s bags are packed, ready for the coach station. My flat is spotless, as it always is after one of her stays. I cry all morning. I recover, only to unceremoniously burst into tears. Mum prays for me before we leave.

God sees your tears.

I’m crying whilst speaking to mum on the bus; not about anything especially sad. Mum worries the other passengers will think something is amiss. My make up runs. I check my yellow summer dress for foundation stains. Mum wells up. I don’t want to upset her but can’t stop. I’ll be weeping on and off for the rest of the day.

By the grace of God, this will only be a temporary separation. Yet in light of my current issues at work, the coming hiatus of my extra-curricular activities and the general isolation of Strasbourg- most of all over summer-it feels more painful than usual. I try to keep perspective, thinking of the despair of poor Habib and those who have it worse off. That only sets me off again.

You’ve always been a sensitive soul. Mum remarks, waiting at the coach stop at Étoile Bourse.

Her luggage has been stowed away but neither of us are ready for her to board. Assured by the driver we still have some time, we prolong our farewell. The engine starts. Mum takes her seat. Normally, I leave once she’s safely on board. This time I wait, straining to see her through the tinted windows.

She waves; giving me a big, reassuring smile. Tears streaming down my face, I turn aside melodramatically. I intend to wait until the coach pulls away. Mum, seeing my distress, signals for me to leave. Realising that it would be unfair to her to remain whilst in this state, I turn to go; somewhat relieved.

Later, I'll recall that I didn’t even cry this much on my first day of school. I didn’t cry at all.

What do you know. A few years shy of 40 and I still want my mum.

Soundtrack: No Freedom Without Sacrifice by Homecut.

Visit Number Five: Part One

Basel Town Centre (Wikipedia)

Shortly after my detour to Pelouses Sonores 2019, I collect mum from Étoile Bourse coach station. It’s a bright and warm Sunday evening. Mum seems to take good weather wherever she goes (cue the Crowded House tune). Her presence will prove a boon in more ways than one. Her middle name means 'favour' in Ewe. By name and by nature.

The visit starts in earnest the next day with an afternoon trip to Basel. The whole world and their [insert close relative] has been raving to me about the Swiss city. It’s on my doorstep but up until that point, I’ve never ventured past the airport. I find cheaper-than-chips coach tickets that’ll give us a few intense hours in the town before having to return to Strasbourg. I’ve been warned of prohibitive costs so, on the advice of a good acquaintance, we take a picnic. In the end, although we do see some ludicrous prices, it’s not as bad as forewarned. The packed-lunch turns out to be a good call nonetheless.

I have been uncharacteristically lax and not done much Basel-related research. The night before I read a few day trip accounts. I don't use a smartphone and mum isn't in the habit of checking her GPS. I’m hoping to pick up a map from the tourist office on arrival. If we can find it.

I ask the assistant coach-driver how to get to the town centre. He shrugs.

No idea, sorry.

I try to make an educated guess. I spot a church steeple in the near-distance to my left. There appears to be more life in that direction too. We end up in the garden of the church with barely a soul around. It’s thanks to an English-speaking passer-by that we learn we’ve walked in the wrong direction. The coach stop looks deceptively isolated, when it’s just the other side of the train station.

By the time we recover our bearings, we’ve already lost some important site-seeing time. (In our haste to make up for it, we walk past the tourist information point; only to realise on our way back to the bus station to board the return coach.)

We settle down for some grub in the shade on an inviting green. On est bien, là. Basel is also in the throes of a heatwave; the same temperatures in the high 30s as Strasbourg but less oppressive. (Not that I wish to complain about having more sun.) The hours are flying past, chipping away at more of our site-seeing time. I’m enjoying the respite but torn by the desire to see more of this chic city.

It’s certainly more cosmopolitan than I anticipate. I hear the best way to discover Basel is to wander aimlessly. That suits me. Unfortunately, time is not on our side. Mum starts to get antsy over the idea of missing our coach. Despite my protests to the contrary, she’s convinced the bus might leave from a different spot from where we arrived. We bicker a little on the way. I want to see the quirky red town hall I’ve heard about. This meandering lark isn’t yielding the fortuitous fruit I’m used to. I admire some of the pastel coloured buildings and expanses of green but it’s time-sensitive. In the end, we make the coach; even if it feels like we haven't seen much of Basel. It goes on an ever-growing list of future activities for mum’s next visit, whenever that might be.

On arriving home, to my distress I discover that I’ve lost my gratitude journal. I’m more distraught by it than the occasion warrants. The evening is a write-off from there. Mum insists on me making dinner despite the picnic. I am not in the mood. She's lukewarm about the results, much to my consternation.

I don’t have any more outings planned until the end of the week. Apart from my usual Monday off and a half-day’s leave that Friday, it’s a normal working week. Fear not reader. Mum doesn’t feel abandoned. She welcomes the chance to rest. Between a stressful, public-facing job, chores and other commitments, she would not have an opportunity to lounge in the UK. I leave her with a transport pass and the spare key so she’s sorted if she wants to pop out. She spends much of the time however, catching up on sleep.

One evening we pass an emotional couple of hours in front of Netflix, watching the Oprah Winfrey interview with the writer/director, cast and real-life subjects of When They See Us; Ava Duvernay's biopic about the notorious Central Park Jogger case. Mum has watched the series twice and cried each time. Our hearts break in particular for Antron McCray and Korey Wise. The next morning, we’ll both remark that we have had only fitful sleep; our dreams haunted by these remarkably resilient men.

Part 2

Fête de la Musique...and Other Musical Adventures: Part 2

Abbaye de Senones

Part 1

The day after my anti-climactic experience at the Fête de la Musique, I participate in my first wedding performance with HRGS choir. The ceremony is to take place at the Abbaye de Senones, deep in the Vosges mountains located in Alsace’s famous twin region, Lorraine. That morning, the weather on the Strasbourg side of the border is not at all promising for the happy occasion.

Stalwart HRGS member Elisabeth and her husband, Gilles-Pierre give the choral delegation a lift in their people carrier. We take the scenic route in every sense of the word; spending a good deal of time getting lost in ghost towns and villages in the shadows of the Vosges. All the better to enjoy the sumptuous landscape. I’m knackered but fight to keep my eyes open to take in the scenery, as well as avoid any snooze-related embarrassment. Apart from the light-hearted squabbles in front about the unreliability of the GPS, it would be a placid ride. That is, except for the harping of contralto Inès. Any obnoxiousness I’ve observed from afar isn’t purely down to my uncharitable side. In this confined space her screeches- becoming more shrill with each mile- are a true test of the patience. I assume she thinks being loud is synonymous with charisma. She wouldn’t be the first.

At last we arrive at the ruins of the Abbaye, where more stunning views of the surroundings await. The weather has also cheered up.

After several years together, Julien and Josette are finally tying the knot. The civil ceremony is to take place under a portico in one of the Abbaye's vast yards. The choir perform in between speeches and the exchange of rings. I admire the efficiency of the proceedings. The whole affair takes less than an hour. Not at all like a black wedding, I mutter to Elise, mischievously. The bride and groom aren't hours late, for a start. Neither are the guests, quips Elise.

Suffice to say it’s a mono-cultural affair. Scarcely a brown face amidst friends and family. Our multicultural choir adds most of the diversity.

Lifelong friends and the couple's mothers give brief and emotive speeches on the journey J+J have walked together.  It occurs to me that if I were to marry, I have no childhood friends left to bear witness to my journey. C’est la vie. Weddings are a strange cocktail of solemnity and celebration. Nothing like these community rituals to provoke contemplation. 

If Josette is moved, Julien is beside himself. He tries to restrain the tears. By the middle of the ceremony, he’s sobbing with red-faced abandon. Julien’s cheeky groomsmen offer something strong to drink to steady his emotions. When his five-year old daughter gives her short, tiny-voiced tribute, it’s all over. He even gets Inès going. I start to thaw towards her. I ask if she’s all right and compliment her rich-chocolate complexion.

On the couple's request, the choir’s repertoire is also a mix of the solemn and festive. From Cohen's Hallelujah to an especially jubilant rendition of This Little Light of Mine at the end. I manage not to fluff my I Have a Dream solo this time. After, the service I’m starved. Thankfully, there’s an abundance of tasty appetisers that amount to a banquet; if consumed in the large quantities that we do.

On the way back to rainy Strasbourg, choir co-director Evan, Elise and I humour ourselves with impromptu Karaoke. Our unpredictable repertoire encompasses anything from Queen, Tina Turner, The Commodores, Janet Jackson, Stevie Wonder, The Sister Act 2 OST, Celine Dion, The Verve and New Jack Swing. These 90s babies make me feel old. They are surprisingly au fait with some vintage hits but have significant gaps in their knowledge of tunes from the decade when they were born.

I savour this moment of pure, unexpected pleasure. Elise will be leaving us soon to start life again the South. I don’t know either exactly when my Strasbourg adventure will end. I sense nonetheless that it's imminent.

That weekend, I have one more musical stop courtesy of the annual summer festival Pelouses Sonores. En route to collect mum from the coach station for a week long visit on Sunday, I pass by Le Parc des Deux Rives near Port du Rhin for some Afrofunk. The stickly front-man dresses like Fela and writes and arranges tunes like JB.

Pelouses Sonores is one of the few – if only – occasions where I’ve witnessed Strasbourgeois truly throw off inhibition en masse to shake their (often rhythmically-challenged) selves. Arms and legs flailing, lit cigarettes in the air and pre-pubescent girls doing somersaults in the corner.

I make the most of the liberated ambiance to shimmy a little myself.

When the band leader starts to exhort the practice of voodoo however, this church girls takes it as her cue to exit.

Fête de la Musique...and Other Musical Adventures: Part 1

In France, the summer solstice coincides with the National Day of Music.  Last year, through ignorance I missed out on what sounded like a world of fun.  I won't make the same mistake. For a start, it falls on a Friday night; the weekend invitingly stretched out ahead.  Furthermore, choir practice has been cancelled; possibly because several members plan to skive off to catch some of the action.

The list of events looks tantalising. I have a few showcases in mind but first I hope to support my manager Sophie and her husband Marcel's Brazilian percussion band. It will be their swan song gig.  After 15 years performing Batacuda as an outfit, Marcel wants to focus on other ventures.

My evening timetable is scuppered pretty early on, however. I leave work much later than usual owing to a last minute hitch.  A friend from London texts me for prayer and moral support.  I call to see how she is doing. It's a half-hour well spent.  Unfortunately, I miss the kick-off of Sophie and co's ambulant performance. I wander the streets of Broglie, heading to the Cathedral; trying to follow the route that Sophie has outlined.  In my percussive pursuit, I pass a couple of sound-systems that mildly pique my interest but I can't allow myself to be distracted.

Peine perdue. I can't locate them. I don't even hear drums in the distance.

Meanwhile, the streets of Strasbourg heave with activity. Crowds gather around Zumba dancers and impromptu drumming. The main stages are large scale festival-style affairs. No expense spared. The sun is out.  The smell of over-priced street food, from different corners of the globe, fills the already humid air.  It's the closest Strasbourg gets to the Notting Hill Carnival-sans floats, Calypso and Soca.

I drift from one stage or sound-system to another in search of enticing grooves.  Without much trouble I work my way to the front of the main stage in Place Kleber, trying to avoid the panoramic gaze of the cameras. I stifle giggles during the set of a Jazz/Funk/Pop outfit. The musicians are solid but I'm tickled by the lead singer's cheesy nasalised vocals, English-as-second-language lyrics and overall corny demeanour.  I've seen enough here. I head to Petite France for a DJ set promising Electronica and Soul amongst other things.  Cutting through Grand Rue, I stumble upon members of the Extreme inter-church Outreach Group sharing the Good News with revellers. One of them is incredulous that I'm out alone.

I'm a Londoner. We do what we want.

This concept appears somewhat alien to the Strasbourgeois. It's the same old story. Everywhere I look, people hang around in their tight cliques. Very few, if any, are solo travellers and none are female from what I gather.  I feel a mixture of bemused fascination over this compulsion to group and smugness about my seasoned independence.

On the other hand, spontaneous encounters with like-minded individuals are far less likely to occur.

There isn't much dancing going on either. When I arrive at the Petite France sound-system, punters are sitting around in groups (naturally); smoking, talking, eating...All things they could do at home.

Place de Kléber, image courtesy of France 3 Régions

I hang around a little to check out the music policy and people-watch. The music isn't bad but it would be odd to be dancing when no-one else is. As a lone female, I don't want to attract unnecessary attention.  I send some update texts to the UK in the meantime. When I look up, I notice some chancer has sidled up undetected whilst I've been distracted. A tad unnerved, I make an early departure. Nothing really to see here.

The next stop is the 'urban' stage at Étoile Bourse. I circumnavigate the crowds by taking a scenic detour via Lycée Pasteur, exploring new corners.

A couple of the lasses from my choir, HRGS, will be putting on their dancing shoes for a set at la scène urbaine. The atmosphere is vibrant, no question. The peninsula is rammed. It's difficult to breathe smoke-free air. There's a concentration of security in the area. The DJ sets are underwhelming; non-descript commercial Afrobeat, Ragga or Hip-Hop fodder that sounds like knock-off Drake.

I'm bored.  I've spent the evening searching in vain for an above-average sound system. I'm a woman of simple pleasures. That's all I ask.  Alas, even that seems too much. This town has a way of disappointing my expectations before I realised I had any.

First world problems.

I text fellow chorister, Claire to check when she's scheduled to perform.  I didn't plan to stay late but I'm here now. She's on her way. She suggests I look out for her partners-in-dance; mingling in the crowd near the main stage. Whilst searching for them a young, all-female troupe commence a raunchy routine to a bass-heavy medley.  The audience go into a frenzy. A few of the girls are dancing in their knickers. Literally. T-shirt & panties. Squatting and shaking their exposed bum cheeks. I avert my gaze. Still, much as I don't care for women self-objectifying, I have to hand it to them. It takes some temerity to do a vigorous dance routine in public dressed in little more than underwear. As they exit, one of the larger girls grabs her right buttock and, with a sly smile to the audience, jiggles it.

I can't see my acquaintances.

I spot some other revellers climbing up the steps of the André Malraux Médiatheque next door. I like the idea of the expansive view from the top and follow suite. A couple of floors from the top I lose my nerve. I can see straight down through the griddled metallic steps. My vertigo kicks in. The holes also allow a group of little pot-smoking perverts to look up my skirt whilst I climb to the next floor.

I give up on the third storey, fearing there's not enough to protect me should I lose my balance. I sit down on the steps to text Sophie an apology. To my surprise, she texts back right away. The band are around the corner from the Cathedral. I toy with the prospect but know I won't make it there and back in time to catch Claire & co's performance. Shame.

I rejoin the crowds for more monotone tunes. I'm just killing time at this point. The anticipated dance routine is impressive from what I can see at a distance, with no glasses. Two Senegalese siblings from the chorale, Fatima and younger sis Farida in particular, prove themselves skilled Afro-beat performers. But no sign of Claire. I text to find out why. I'm injured, is the response, I was just filming the show.

The crowd is by now so dense that I only emerge from the Presqu'ile in time to see my bus disappearing into the distance.

On my way to the stop, I bump into a glamorous and outgoing colleague from The Human Rights Organisation, out with her family.

So how've you found it? she asks

Meh, as the Yanks would say.

I enjoyed the people-watching but... and proceed to list my Fête-related quibbles.

I love the typically British moan-y response. She teases.

(For one thing, I don't consider myself that British.)

Dancing en masse in the streets? Hardly. She tells me to adjust my expectations. She's lived in different cities around the world.  There's a limit to how excitable Strasbourg gets. This is it.

Donc, je sais maintenant.

Still en route to the bus stop, kept company by K-Os' 2010 album Yes! (far better than anything I've heard all evening), a couple of lads pass by. The Caucasian one mouths something in my direction. I remove my earphones.

Pardon?

Vous etes ravissante.

Ah, merci.

Je vous vraiment en prie.

Ego-boosts from handsome blokes. I'll take some of that.

Maybe this night wasn't a complete wash-out after all.

Soundtrack: Yes! by K-Os.

Part 2

…Though Your Heart Is Breaking

I like to believe I’m getting used to the emotional cycles that I’ve realised are part and parcel of my Strasbourg experience. Hmm. Well yes and no.  True, they no longer take me by surprise and the onset of depression that stalked me last year doesn’t feel as intense. Then again, I didn’t expect the indigo mood to necessarily recur as often as it has.  The workplace misery doesn’t help. And so, to keep myself sane I will count my blessings and focus on my happy places.

Like a visit from long-time acquaintance and former Catch-a-Vibe editor, Alice one Friday afternoon at the end of May. Now based in Switzerland, she spends a day in Strasbourg with her sister who’s visiting her from the Netherlands. Their encouragement about my French is a much-needed psychological boost. I express myself with more fluidity. I wish I could speak this well consistently. 

It’s their first time in Strasbourg. They’re understandably enchanted by the City’s aesthetic. Say what I like about Alsace, it’s a beautiful region; I can’t deny. The hospitality…not so much.  That’s normal, Alice and sis reassure. They should know. Born and raised in Francophone West Africa and having lived in various European cities, they are true Citoyennes Mondiales. It’s always a bit lonesome when you move to a new city, they assure. It could very well be a Nordic trait too.  Both of them have found it hard to connect with the natives in their respective adopted homes. It’s easier making friends with fellow expats. One thing’s for sure though. None of us is in a rush to return to the UK in its current state.

On a lighter note, They’re sufficiently tickled about my incredulity as I regale them with tales of romantic overtures from the French.

You’re just not used to it.

Choir rehearsals continue to be an oasis of joy, especially if I’ve had a tough week.  We’re preparing for a couple of gigs in June, including a wedding.  Church is another haven. I feel better connected having been able to attend the weekly house groups on a more regular basis since September.

The Monday after Pentecost Sunday is a public holiday.  One of the few drawbacks of having the first working day of the week off (apart from the annoying Alsatian tradition of most establishments being closed) is that there’s no novelty when it coincides with a national holiday.  To stave off the boredom, I plan a trip by bus to the convent on Mount St. Odile as recommended by a colleague. Outside of the height of summer, the bus route is very limited; public holidays being a somewhat ironic exception.

Mount St. Odile Convent, Alsace.

It’s a miserable early summer day but I’m determined. I even pack a lunch in case I decide to solo picnic. My mood is as glum as the weather. (Pathetic fallacy, anyone?) Yet, despite the grey skies and grey feelings, the stunning landscape takes me out of myself. It really is as much about the journey as the destination.

The best is yet to come. The view from the Convent is breath-taking; intimidatingly so.  I am reminded of observations made by Edmund Burke and Emmanuel Kant about the sublime; how the things that inspire awe are a mix of beauty and dread. The very word ‘awesome’ has been debased by its overuse, particularly by our American chums. Nevertheless, the view from Mount St. Odile is worthy of the word; even on a wet and overcast day.

I make the most of where I am and secrete off to sacred spaces, as is my habit. When I eventually manage to distance myself from the huddles of tourists, I find a virtually deserted chapel in plain view. Some solitude, finally. I try my best to commune with the Almighty in silence.

With buses back to Strasbourg running only every four hours, I decide to bring my trip to an early finish. I am determined however, to come back during sunnier climes; ideally with a guest. Mum would love it here.

The journey back down Mount Odile is delightful. The driver blasts 70s, 80s and 90s pop and soul hits (MJ, EWF, George Benson, Oliver Cheetham etc…) with a couple of guilty pleasures in the mix. I sing at the top of my voice whilst grooving in my seat. That’s not as anti-social as it might sound. For a brief but enjoyable moment, I’m the only passenger. I become a little more cautious once others straggle on board. I turn around to apologise to the man behind me and offer to move. He’s very accommodating. Perhaps a little too much. He is keen to keep me conversing. I’m pleased for the French practice but when I can’t immediately shake him on arriving at Strasbourg, I bluntly take my leave.

Music festival season starts early in Strasbourg. I unintentionally have missed out on some events so plan to make amends. Aisha, a former classmate from my evening Portuguese lessons, invites me to watch her Brazilian percussion band the following Sunday. I’m rarely in the mood for pure drum sets but I don't regret making the exception for this lively bunch. You wouldn’t know it from the crowd's typically staid Alsatian response. I can only admire the mettle of the featured dancers, whose enthusiasm isn’t dampened by the relative inertia of their audience. I try to make up for it by shaking my stuff. Aisha later shows her appreciation for my efforts.

I’m not sure if and when our paths will next cross. She’ll soon be heading to Sao Tomé & Principe to join her fiancé for an extended sojourn. She shares the news that she’s a few month's pregnant. Her belly is still flat. With Aisha’s French-Algerian heritage and her fiancé’s Afro-Portuguese mulatto roots, that’s going to be one international baby.

There are more happy reunions when I finally catch-up with Roisin, who made an impression a few months ago at a Meet-Up event. I didn’t have the presence of mind to take her details at the time but manage to track her down. It’s a relief to meet someone who talks as much as I do. It makes me less self-conscious.  Although she’s playing with the idea of extending her study stay in France, she’s found it similarly difficult to integrate into Strasbourg life. C’est la même ritournelle. It seems this is the experience of almost everyone I’ve met coming from outside of Alsace. No matter how many times I hear it, I feel perversely reassured. If someone as personable and outgoing as Roisin can struggle-even with, as she explains, pre-existing links to the City-I know it’s not just me.

Freiburg - View from Schlossberg Castle Tower

That Monday I head across the German border to Freiburg to while away another day in the splendid company of Coral. Tasty savoury pastries (courtesy of Coral) and delicious iced desserts also help. I’ve been experiencing a bit of a relapse of late in regard to my one-time infatuation.  Coral knows that refrain pretty well herself. Some of her wisdom echoes with what sis has shared during recent Skype conversations.

It's a blistering hot day. I notice a number of Freiburgers walking around barefoot. Coral explains that's normal around these parts. It's a boho city, she says. 

She takes me to a vantage point; the ruins of a hilltop castle.  From there we have a panoramic view of Freiburg, the peripheries of the Black Forest and a glimpse of France.

Six hours between coach rides evaporates when talking about everything under the sun. 

Soundtrack:  12 Little Spells by Esperanza Spalding, By Fire by Kneebody. Memoirs by Rox.

Ebb and Flow

My return to Strasbourg after my recent London trip has been the usual mix of ups and downs; both professionally and personally. I come back to the office to find a churlish email from one of my line managers.  The usually convivial 20-something hasn't addressed me like that before, although I have noticed subtle changes in her behaviour.

That same day I have a heart-to-heart with my main line manager, Sophie. There’s still no confirmation about whether our contracts will be renewed. She is optimistic nonetheless. There has been encouraging news, if yet to be made official. Over the coming days and weeks, she’ll tell me on a number of occasions that it’s a mere formality. We do agree however, that it's the height of unprofessionalism. This is The Human Rights Organisation after all. Charity begins at home. Obviously not.  It's as if the HR department is using the precarious financial situation as an excuse for shoddy admin.

The conversation segues into my genuine concerns about work. Psychologically, it’s been a battle of late to come into the office.

Sophie has already noted a change and wanted to approach me about it. This is an unexpected opportunity.

As is her wont, she gives both constructive critique about my performance and compassionate personal advice. I commend her managerial skills. If only it were always this way. I acknowledge my own errors whilst contextualising them in what I've found to be a non-conducive work environment. I outline some of the practical steps I’m taking to manage the situation, whilst remaining discreet about certain measures.  We bring the meeting to a close. She’s on half-day and I have some errands to run in town during the lunch hour.

Shortly afterwards, I see Sophie and senior manager, Lucia speaking intently in the corridor. I try to wave away any concern. It could just be coincidence. 

Coming back from my lunchtime errands, I bump into Sophie once more.

You’re still here?

I raise the spontaneous tête-à-tête with Lucia. My fleeting suspicions are confirmed, much to my consternation. Lucia was checking up on what was discussed.

This is exactly what I’m talking about! All this micro-management. I fume. Sophie tries to calm me down.

The following morning, I will myself out of bed. It’s Friday. It’s only my second day in the office that week and I’m already exhausted.  

Later that day, I’m reminded that sometimes God sends little lifelines when you desperately need them. 

I receive a call from the security team at the Magenta building. We have a good rapport but the ambiance at work recently has made me paranoid. I’m asked to pass by the security office when I have a moment. En route I bump into Yvonne, one of the lovely team members. She says I have nothing to worry about. She would know.

I am greeted by a wonderful surprise. A small but no less significant gesture of kindness from the team. It lifts my spirits beyond measure. I weep tears of gratitude, sending them an emotional email of thanks.  By chance I bump into another security team member that Saturday in town, after a disappointing cinematic excursion. I stop by an artisanal Turkish restaurant for some pide. One of the security guards, Laurence happens to be dining out with his youthful-looking mum. I attempt to bring her up to date on his thoughtful act but il m’a coiffée au Poteau.

...She's the one I was telling you about...

The following few weeks are suddenly busy. There are a number of significant meetings at work; some leaving me less reassured than others. 

My choir is performing as part of an event commemorating the end of slavery in France. There’s some free West Indian grub in it for us too. I’ve invited some Strasbourgeois acquaintances and a few colleagues, including the security team. I’m nervous about who will show up. Our performance will depend on an alchemy that can’t be guaranteed with a community choir.  It doesn’t help that several co-choristers are performing at a wedding that evening; including the director, Kiasi. I’m praying the others won’t disgrace me in front of my guests with a) a low turnout b) dodgy pitch. Thankfully, on the night the numbers are promising. Plus, star soprano and veteran member, Nicole is in the house. 

I am pleasantly surprised to see Yvonne in the audience with hubbie in tow. Seraphine from church also made the effort.

It’s not our best performance but neither is it terrible. Too bad that I fluff my solo. My singing comrades try to assuage my guilt/self-flagellation. I know I let the thought of guests in the audience get the better of me. I find it hard to sing in front of those I know. At least my new BFF, Gael has already left the building at that point. We catch-up briefly before I go on stage. It turns out one of his entourage used to sing with HRGS back in the day; a talented fellow at that, according to the veterans. Small world.

Gael and I will meet-up again the following weekend but not before another eventful seven days. 

The penultimate Thursday of May is officially the last day of mine and Sophie’s contract. A few minutes before 5pm, when we’ve given up on any updates that day and I’m wondering if I’ll be able to still access the building tomorrow, a confirmation from HR drops in our inboxes. 

Sophie manifests in the doorway.

Have you seen it?

I have. Just as I’d given up. There’s a life lesson in there somewhere.

I've received a stay of execution; at least until the end of my probation period. Hallelujah.

The following evening, I have an emotionally fraught and long overdue conversation with an old friend. It doesn’t end well. It was to be expected but I’m unnerved. Worse still, I find out late in the day that choir practice has been cancelled that night. Lord knows, I need the spiritual and emotional balm.

There’s no way I can stay indoors wallowing in my thoughts. I decide to attend the Friday night outreach with the street team. Fortunately, they have a session planned that evening. Better still, we’ll be joined again by the inspiring house church from Neudorf.

They’d make quite a fascinating subject for a fly-on-the-wall documentary. Each time I'm there, I  meet a new visitor from a different corner of the globe. This week it’s the turn of Kamir; a native of Afghanistan.  He converted from nominal Islam after fleeing to Luxembourg and meeting some life-filled Christians. He grew up in a multi-lingual environment, taught himself English back in Kabul and started learning German from scratch in his adopted home. He’s lived there just over a year. His agnostic girlfriend isn’t comfortable joining us so stays back at the house with a poorly church member. Kamir wants to join us for outreach to the Girls. Since he has no French, I and a few others help translate for him. Once we separate into our respective groups however, I’m the only other English-speaker.

I spend most of the night keeping Kamir company. There are five of us instead of the usual three (including a recently married young couple. The husband found God in prison). Group leader Sabrina doesn’t want us to overwhelm the Girls. Thus, Kamir and I stand at a distance for much of the evening.

In an effort to bond, Kamir begins talking about Africans and Nelson Mandela. I have less patience for these cultural missteps nowadays; especially living in France. On reflection, I could be more patient.

In one evening, Kamir goes from having a rather perplexed- at times sanctimonious- attitude towards the women, to one of understanding. On the other hand, it's a battle to have sympathy for the clients. I can wholly relate to that. I’m not saintly in that area either. Kamir can't get his head round the transactional and objectified approach to sex; orgasm without emotional connection.We catch sight of one louche-looking, overweight Caucasian male, sidling up to one of the Girls. He's a walking stereotype.

I had worried earlier that my presence was not only superfluous but an inconvenience. I have cause to change my mind by the end of the evening. Before the 15-strong outreach team gathers in town for a de-brief, we make one last stop. We meet two new West African girls; Christabel and Tess. Both are in their 20s. Tess came to France via Libya and Spain. I shudder at the thought. I ask whether they want to be prayed for. They accept. I probe further, asking them what they would do if they could get out of The Life. Christabel would like to be a seamstress. Tess was studying architecture in Delta State.

My heart is full. Perhaps it’s because we’re from the same part of the world. These beautiful women; Tess with her high, round cheekbones and Christabel whose dimples are so deep, she barely needs to smile. Strong women. Hope-filled women despite the lowered eyes and world-weariness.  I pray with everything in me, the Spirit taking over. Kamir's on standby. By the end we’re laughing and embracing each other.

The Museum of Modern & Contemporary Art (MAMCS), Strasbourg

The following day is the annual March for Jesus that takes place across France.

After a very variable late Spring we’re blessed with clement, even hot weather that Saturday. I spot many familiar faces in the crowd; both from church and the outreach group, including Kamir. The atmosphere is even more festive than last year.  We take over the heart of the City, trailing behind three floats carrying live musicians and vocalists. Pedestrians get their phones out. Drivers stop to stare. A veritable Carnival for Christ.

I am captivated by a young man from my church doing French Sign Language. He's not just signing the song lyrics, he's experiencing them in real time. He radiates so much unadulterated joy, I am moved to tears. These fleeting moments point to the Divine; the hope of something better and purer.

As chance would have it, we stop outside MAMCS which is where I happen to be meeting Gael. I take my leave.

I wait in the café tucked away in the corner of the building; another new discovery courtesy of Gael.

He’s held up by The March. I order some freshly-squeezed juice whilst I wait, overlooking a gorgeous view of Petite France; my favourite part of town. Gael arrives, pulling my chain about some annoying people crowding out the streets. Trusting sort that I am, I think he’s serious until he bursts into a sincere smile.

Soundtrack: Left My Heart by Ed Mount. Ventura by Anderson .Paak